


The Telegraph Road

by ypsese



Category: The Last of Us (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Awkward Romance, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Constipation, Eventual Smut, F/M, Falling In Love, Heavy Angst, Mary Sue, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Selectively Mute Main Character, Seperation Anxiety, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:55:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26170786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ypsese/pseuds/ypsese
Summary: “What the hell happened?”You try—but no avail—to wipe the dried blood off your face.“Clickers.” You mutter.Henry gives you an exasperated look. “No normal person would’ve survived that.”Joel grunts. “She clearly ain’t normal.”—Joel meets you, a selectively mute cyborg wandering America trying to piece together the remnants of your stolen memories. At first, he thinks you're a freak, and then he thinks you're a cold-hearted asshole, and then thinks you're everything from beautiful to deadly and—Jesus christ has he fallen in love with you?
Relationships: Joel (The Last of Us)/Reader, Joel Miller/Reader, Joel/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 43





	The Telegraph Road

* * *

The road was long, but it was all the same. Same broken buildings toppled by panic and destruction. Same rusted cars littering the streets like wilted pumpkins. Same skyscrapers leaning into the sidewalks. Same foliage running like a rash across the pavement, clinging to walls and sinking into cracks. 

There’s a giant cypress tree growing from an old book store on the corner.  You can’t remember the last time you’ve read a book, much less what it was. There’s probably a memory of it, lurking deep within the muddled mess of your mind. Maybe it was Frankenstein’s Monster or Dracula. They were classics, weren’t they? 

When you pass the bookstore there’s nothing inside. Disappoint barely registers in your mind. The only thing you really care for anymore is Infected. It’s hardwired into your brain. 

You trudge on, the metal tips of your combat boots shimmering in the sunlight. There’s a dead Clicker sunken into the wall of an alleyway, and a Hunter not too far away. He’s lost his leg; probably to a shotgun. He’s decomposing too. From the looks of it, he died a couple hours ago. 

You walk on, unbothered by the wafting stench of rotten wood and decay. There’s a heavy clunk that accompanies your every step. Silver dog tags jingle against your neck, twinkling with friction. The cold muzzle of your sniper rifle bounces and settles against your tailbone, gradually making a dent in your spine. You’ve gotten used to its persistent swaying, as well as the woven strap that’s bruised your shoulder. 

The sun beats down on your back, slowly peeling away the skin on your shoulders. Your slick with sweat, marching through the rundown whispers of pre-outbreak Pittsburgh. 

**“Joel!”**

Your head swings around at the sound. The voice is young, a little on the shrill side too. It’s coming from one of the tall buildings. A hotel. There’s people inside; hunters and Infected. 

You barely hesitate. It’s your job after all. All that programmable courage and apathy coil inside of you, pushing you forward. 

You scale the side of the building. Gears whirl in your ears. Blood burns in your veins. The scar on your neck shimmers. 

Half the building's been submerged in water. The elevator’s broken and the floor’s given way. The metal pylons that keep the ceiling from folding in on you are a breath away from collapsing. 

Close range combat isn't ideal when the building is withering away beneath your feet, but you have no choice unless you want those civilians to die. You look around carefully. There’s scarcer erosion on the east side of the hotel, so you take that route. 

A sniper’s too clunky and awkward to kill in such narrow spaces. You had no room to manoeuvre if you get snuck up on—that or you’d find yourself stuck in a short corridor—so you pull out a pistol.

No-one’s home, or so it seems. You sweep the area, quietly following the sounds of hunters and Infected. There’s a couple sweeping a wide room—it looks like a lobby—and you take them out fairly quickly. To the right, there’s a Stalker, which you stab and leave hidden behind a broken bar table. 

**“Joel!**

There’s that sound again. 

You’re close. You turn another corner and the hallway opens up into a huge room. The windows are bordered off and run down with velvet curtains. There’s a puddle of water sunk deep into the floor. Two men are struggling in it. 

One’s a hunter—you can tell by his militia uniform. You can barely see the other person, but he’s being choked to death. He flails for his gun, kicking and wriggling in a last-ditch effort to catch the hunter by surprise before he gets forced back down. 

It takes you a second to estimate all the possible outcomes that could transpire. You’ll kill the Hunter, but you’re unsure as to how the other man will react. Will he attack you? _Probably._ Then he’ll die, and what would be the point in saving him in the first place? It’d just be a waste of bullets. 

But then you remember the voice from before. Judging by the softness of their vocal cords their probably a little girl. Maybe this is her father? 

You don’t like killing children—and it would certainly lead to that if you shot her father. 

It’s a cardinal rule that you’ve forced yourself abide by in this brutal world. No killing kids. No brutalising civilians. No attachments. No breaking rules 1, 2 & 3\. 

Without them, you know you’re sense of morality would crumble. People that have no restraint, people that have nothing to fight for, or no one to fight with become estranged— crippled by a twisted sense of right and wrong. 

Your mind is suddenly made up. You don’t want to be that. _Ever._

The mechanical cogs in your leg buzz as you throw a kick at the hunter's head. The force blows it right off his shoulders. There’s a careful rhythm to your step that shears it right off like a guillotine blade. Your arms fall back down to your sides as you watch the head rolls across the floor, spreading blood like an oversized paint-brush.

The man you’ve just saved springs back to life like an old hinge.  He sucks in a breath that quivers across his body like flimsy electricity.  He’s got blood on his face and he rubs at it frantically, like his eyes are itchy.  Then he sets his eyes on you. They’re a soft hazel, but that softness seems like a trap. He's too angry-looking. 

Caution calls to the back of your mind like a probe, and you jog you feet back a couple steps. He doesn’t reach for his revolver to put a bullet between your eyes, but he still looks menacing somehow. 

A shrill cry breaks you away from his gaze. You’re not interested in his reaction anymore. Infected are clicking outside.

Your right arm throbs when you reach up to tear away the barricades blocking the window. You peer out into the dirty streets below, scouring the area carefully. You spot a group of hunters and take to your rifle, swinging it around on your hip until the barrel is nestled comfortably against your foot. You lean into the scope, counting out how many you can kill before they start scattering.

“What’re you…” the man’s voice tickles your ears. He's got a deep southern accent. “Who the hell are you?” 

You don’t bother to look back. He’s wasting your time by asking questions that you can’t answer. 

“Joel?” 

The other voice, the shrill, feminine one sparks your interest and you turn around. 

The man named Joel is looking at you with an expression divided between caution and alarm. 

Objectively speaking, he’s one of the most attractive people you’ve met out here. And it’s especially uncanny considering you’ve been surrounded by clean-shaven, military pretty-boys for the past five years. 

He’s huge, muscular too, with dark hair and a beard. Your vision tells you that he’s approximately 96 kilograms, 5 feet 11 inches, not Infected and in his mid ’40s. 

He’s got a smattering of cuts and scars that dot his tanned skin like a broken canvas.  You wonder how battle-hardened he’s become since the outbreak. How long’s he’s been fighting the Cordyceps infection and how many love one’s he’s lost to look like that.  It stimulates your brain with an overflow of nonsensical thoughts before you shut them off. You turn your gaze to the little girl. 

She’s got burgundy coloured hair with little freckles on her face that look like constellations. 

“Who’s this?” She asks, gesturing with her switchblade. 

You bristle, eyes dotting from her knife and back up to her face in an instant. You don’t think she’ll stab you, but the juries still out on the older guy. 

“Stay back,” Joel warns her. 

“There’s hunter’s spread out beneath us,” is the first thing you say. “You’ll need my help if you want to get through.”

“What makes you think we need to get through?” 

You cast your eyes across his face, regarding him carefully. It’s obvious he’s just trying to get a rise out of you, too see where you stand, but you’re not biting. You don’t care if he doesn’t trust you. You don’t care that he sees you as a threat. You don’t care about… _anything_ really. 

There’s no other way out of this building that doesn’t come with imminent uncertainty. Runners, Clickers…maybe even a Bloater considering the wear and tear of the building. And that’s not even taking into account the endless stream of hunter’s patrolling the area. There’s only one reason for people to be travelling through these parts. They’re either coming or going, they’re not staying. You chalk him up to be a smuggler or a tourist. You’re not sure about the girl. You haven’t sized her up yet, she’s a bit of a wildcard.

“Quiet type huh?” The little girl asks. 

You stare at her.

“Okay," she sighs. "What’s your name?” 

You shrug. 

“You don’t know?” She sounds sceptical. 

“Ellie,” the man grumbles. “We ain’t got time for this.”

“She saved your life! Don’t you at least wanna know her name?” 

Joel takes his time considering her words, and for a while, you all just stare at each other. But finally, he relents. 

“Those dog-tags you got there?” He asks, nodding towards your neck.

You don’t look down, you don’t touch them. You don’t even nod. 

“(Name) Walker,” Ellie reads. “That's your name?” 

“Probably.” 

_“Probably?”_

You nod. 

“Christ,” Joel huffs. “She’s nuts.”

That sounded right. _Well_ , it felt like it anyway. 

“What’s that accent you got?” Ellie asks. 

“Australian.” That much you know. 

“You’re from Australia?” 

“Most likely.”

The girl glowers. “Fucking hell, dude. You ever give straight answers?”

“When I can.” You admit. 

Your answer seems to stifle the flow of conversation because when you look back at Ellie, she’s sizing you up with a look of pity in her eyes. 

“That a military sniper rifle?” Joel asks. 

You nod. 

“How’d you get it?” 

You don’t give him an answer and it pisses him off. 

Joel definitely looks like the type of person who hates owing a debt, _especially_ from a stranger. You can’t really blame him though—a random girl shows up to save your life and asks for nothing in return? It was suspicious. Maybe even a little coincidental, but you don’t care. 

“We gotta get goin’,” he mutters.

Ellie stares at him incredulously. “What about her?” 

Joel does a double-take like he can’t figure out why those words just came out of her mouth. _“What?”_

Ellie realises she may as well be talking to a brick wall because she turns back to you, which really wasn't that much better of an alternative. 

“You saved him,” Ellie says,  searching your face for even a shred of emotion.  She gets nothing. Not even a blink.  _ “Why?” _

“I didn’t do it for him,” you say. 

Ellie frowns. “What the fuck does that mean?” 

“Just…making sure I’m still human.” You mutter, swinging your rifle around onto your canvas backpack. That question's been up to debate since you escaped the Labs. 

Ellie settles with understanding. Joel doesn't react, he just wanders off to look for supplies. 

“We need to get back out, find that bridge.” He grumbles, shifting a ladder against a broken part of the wall. 

“You won’t make it,” you say. “The bridge is surrounded by hunters.” 

“How do you know?” Ellie asks. 

“I’ve been through here before, it’s always the same.” 

“You’ve made it through,” Joel says, reading between the lines. “How?” 

You look down at your feet, an uncomfortable feeling crawling up your back. 

He already knows the answer. So does Ellie. You killed that hunter without remorse. Without hesitation. It wouldn’t be much of a stretch for him to assume you’d done it before, a hundred times over maybe.

“Where are you coming from?” Ellie says, swiftly changing the subject. 

“Boston QZ.”

She splutters. _“R-Really?”_

You don’t respond. It’s painfully obvious that you don't talk for the fun of it. 

“And you’re comin’ this way for what?” Joel asks. 

“Business.” 

Ellie lets out a breathy laugh. “ **Riveting** conversation.”

Your lips twitch slightly. You don’t think she notices it, but she does. 

“Where you headin’?” 

“Jackson.”

Ellie looks at you like you’ve grown a third eye. 

“No shit. We’re going there as well!” 

It suddenly occurs to you that this is a disastrous lane of conversion to be leading down, but your powerless to stop it at this point. 

Joel scratches the side of his head. “Why do you need to be goin’ there?”

“Looking for someone." 

Something dawns behind Ellie’s eyes. “Come with us.”

Joel flinches at the idea. “Ellie—!” 

“C’mon,” she cries. “She knows the area better than you! She’s got guns and skills and all that cool shit!” 

“This ain’t smart Ellie, what if—“

“Joel!” She pleads, her hand coming to rest on your bicep.  “She saved your life!” 

You would’ve argued with her—told her that you were fine travelling on your own, after all, that’s how you’d survived this long. Infected were predictable. Humans weren’t. You didn’t need the guilty conscience of her inevitable death hanging over your head. You don’t kill kids. You don’t make attachments. That was the rule. 

But something makes you stop. Ellie's touching your arm. There’s a scar underneath her sleeve. It’s maybe a month old, and big enough to match the mandible width of an average human’s jaw. 

It takes you a moment to realise what you're seeing. She’s Infected. But the bite mark is old, _too_ old. She should’ve changed by now. No, she should've been a _Stalker_ by now. 

You tear your gaze away from her and look out the window. It’s twilight now and a new patrol has come in. Your mind is buzzing with thoughts. You can’t organise them no matter how hard you try. It hurts your brain to even touch the surface. 

“I’ll go.” You blurt out. 

You don’t take it back and regret inches at the corners of your mind. You're not one for spontaneity. Every decision you make is calculated, careful and clearheaded. This is everything you've sworn off, but you swallow it down. It feels right, feels needed. Necessary maybe.

Joel gives you a hard stare and takes his time to look at you. _Really_ look at you. 

You’re young, that’s for sure. Lean and fit like a panther, lithe like one too. You’re a good shot judging by your handle on that military sniper. You’ve got a backpack full of supplies, lots of ammunition and a functioning moral compass. That would pass in anyone's books as a suitable travelling companion. That and you’re quiet. God knows Joel needs more quiet in his life right now.

He figures having you tag along wouldn’t be detrimental. It might even make things a little easier. 

“Let’s go.” He says. 

Ellie shrugs. “Lead the way.” 

Joel leads you through the building, staying away from barricaded doors and squeaky floorboards. The whole place is holding one big raspy breath as a final hurray before it keels over onto the street. 

You get ten minutes of peace and quiet before Ellie’s boredom overflows and she starts asking you questions.

What’s your favourite colour, favourite food, favourite song. Where you were from in Australia, what you were doing in Boston, how you’d gotten there all by yourself. How many Infected you’d killed. If you’d ever been to Jackson County before. If you’d ever been to Phoenix before. 

You don’t answer a single one, but Ellie is hardly fazed. It’s like she’s determined to get you to speak, even if its a single syllable word. 

Joel lets out a grumbling sigh. “I hate this crap.” 

You spot a lookout-post scrapped from an old balcony and usher them along. You pass through two beautiful glass windows and find a dead corpse slumped in a chair, clutching a hunting rifle. Joel rips it from his skeletal fingers and hunches low. 

Hunter’s are everywhere. You warned them before, but you suppose it's better they see it with their own eyes. You're aren't much of a reliable source. 

Joel rubs his face.  “Alright, I’m gonna jump down there and clear us a path.” 

“What about me?” Ellie asks. 

Joel hesitates. “You stay up here—“

“This is so fucking stupid! You’d have more of a chance if you’d let me help!”

“I am!” Joel snaps, giving her a stern look. 

A moment of silence passes between them. Joel agonises over it, weighing up his options. 

“You seem to know your way around a gun,” he props the rifle up in front of her. “Reckon you can handle that?” 

Ellie shuffles awkwardly. “Well I…I sorta shot a rifle before. But it was at rats.” 

_ “Rats?”  _

“With BB’s.” 

Joel relents, his shoulders sinking.“Well, it’s the same basic concept.”  He gestures with his hand. “Lift it up.”

Ellie hesitantly picks up the rifle. 

“Alright now,” he places a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “You’re gonna wanna lean right into that stock ‘cause it's gonna kick a hell of a lot more than any BB rifle.” 

Ellie lets out a soft breath. Your bionic eye tells you her blood pressure is rising. 

“Go ahead a pull that bolt back,” he gives her a slow demonstration. “Grab it right there, just tug it.” A bullet casing pops out. “There you go. Now, as soon as you fire, you’re gonna want to another round in there quick."

Ellie gives him a hesitant nod, and it obviously rubs Joel the wrong way. His eyes harden and there’s an even more pressing tinge to his voice. 

“Listen to me—if I get into trouble down there—you make every shot count. Yeah?” 

“I got this,” she reassures. 

Joel shuffles back a bit, looking down at the hunters and then back up at Ellie. “Alright.” 

He scuffles over to the ladder running down the side of the watchtower. You’re leaning against the metal rungs, watching him carefully. 

“You good?” 

You nod. 

He pauses, thinking something over. 

“Thanks.” 

You can only assume he’s thanking you for saving his life. You don’t say anything. You doubt you can come up with something that expresses your feelings to that extent. He’s shown you an olive branch, so in turn, you give him another nod. The back and forth seems a little one-sided, but you don’t know what to offer him that will satiate his begrudging admittance. He doesn’t owe you anything, but he thinks he does

You drop down next to Joel, barely making a noise. It’s like the soles of your feet are made from foam and feathers. He glances at you, a nervous itch burning behind his eyes. You can’t blame him, you’re about to take on a dozen hunter’s and he has to trust you not to shoot him when his back’s turned. 

You don’t offer any words of relief. Words mean next to nothing nowadays. It's all moot at this point. Actions are far easy to understand. What you do and what you say are often two completely different things. If Joel really wants to trust that you won’t blow his head off, he’ll just have to watch you work. 

You unhitch your knife from your leg and creep over to the fence line. Joel watches you carefully, but his worry soon fades when he sees you sink your blade into a patrolling hunter’s neck. You hide his body behind a car barricade and slowly creep into the office building their guarding. 

You rush through them like a storm. One goes down, then another and another. It’s totally bizarre that they haven't noticed something is wrong. You’re picking them off one by one and they haven't even got the mind to be sceptical. 

You wonder if Joel is just as lucky with their current obliviousness. You find out fairly quickly he _isn't_. Someone’s throwing pot-shots at the car he’s hiding behind from a watchtower. He’s struggling with another guy and there’s a Molotov fire spread everywhere. 

You realise you’ve just picked off the unassuming stragglers who were caught up in a panic. 

Someone comes up behind you. He’s got a pistol, but he doesn’t draw it quick enough to inspire any sort of fear in you. He makes a squawking noise when you grab him by the face. He flails and tries to push you, but you step back and use his own momentum to slam his head into the concrete wall beside you. Your knee crunches against his temple until his skull pops like an egg. He’s too dead to even fall, he just stays there. 

When you look back, Joel’s killed the other hunter and Ellie’s taken out the marksman. You walk over to him, covered in blood and other equally disgusting bodily fluids. Joel does a double-take and then his gaze soars over your head, counting up the dead bodies littering the street. 

The lines of anxiety under his eyes glisten. He looks like he wants to say something, but he’s fighting himself. 

“If I wanted to kill you, you’d be dead,” you tell him. “We need to keep moving.” 

It’ll be dark soon. There’s Infected around. They aren’t merciful to a lack of depth perception. They scream and cry and tear limbs apart at all times of the day.

Joel doesn’t argue with you. Ellie climbs down from the watchtower and hands Joel the hunting rifle. She looks a little squeamish. 

“How’d I do?”

Joel doesn’t say anything, just gives her a stern nod. You know he’s proud, but he doesn’t want to show it. It isn't something you’d want to be proud of. Maybe in another time, she’d look for his validation in learning how to ride a bike, or park a car. 

“How ‘bout somthin’…” Joel pulls back the slide on a pistol and flips it over. “A little more your size?”

Ellie goes to grab for it, but Joel pulls away, dancing around the prospect of giving her a gun. “It’s for emergencies **only.** ” 

“…okay.”  She tucks it away behind her shirt. A terrible place to put a gun, especially if it misfires. But you guess its the only place she’s got for it. 

Their interactions are confusing. Shouldn’t he have given her a gun when they first started travelling together? Wouldn’t that have made you completely obsolete in the near-death scenario Joel avoided an hour prior?

You pause, mulling it over. He’s worried about her. Worried about himself. A little girl and a handgun are two things that were never supposed to mix. He knows that and he’s trying to avoid it at all costs. This world isn’t merciful to children—in fact, it's _even more_ to cruel to them.

You wonder what changed his mind. What made him reconsider something that so clearly bothers him. Maybe it was watching you kill hunters.  You’re a young girl, hardened by some sort of trauma you can’t remember. You’ve adjusted to the barren wasteland of humanity quite well, and he knows it. A subverted reality is what he might not want to come to terms with still. 

These people you’re travelling with, they’re _good._ Good people. Or at least they’re trying to be. You can respect that. They know hardship and sacrifice, but they walk on, fighting with a purpose. They kill because they have to, not because they want to.

And this man. Joel. He’s different to what you initially thought. It doesn’t surprise you though. People can act a certain way when they’re thrown into life-threatening scenarios. They get callous and angry and most of the time, extremely unforgiving. But then they come back to themselves. They search for their humanity and try to make peace. 

He’s a good man. But that isn’t what surprises you. It’s his caution. His action. He understands consequence. He understands what his behaviour means. He doesn’t try to justify the bad things he's done and will do. He isn't trying to prove to himself that he’s different. 

_That_ is what surprises you. 

“N-Now the safety’s on,” Joel mutters nervously. “Do you know how to switch it off?” 

“I do.” 

“Okay, you just…you gotta respect it. This is not—” 

“Joel,” Ellie interrupts. “I’ll be careful.” 

He sighs. “Okay.” 

You keep trekking. Dodging through buildings and sneaking down alleyways. There are hunters everywhere. On foot. In watchtowers. But the most dangerous ones are the guys driving the Humvee's. They’re military-owned judging by the colours—high mobility multipurpose wheeled vehicles designed for all-terrain. 

They’re shooting people in the streets and looting their dead bodies. You know you could take a Humvee on your own. The thought of leaving tourists to fight against such impossible odds doesn’t sit right with you—but you’d lose a lot of supplies in the process. You weigh up your options and decide against it. 

You're getting closer to the bridge, but sundown is closer. Scaling buildings and jumping ladders could only get you so far with half the city barricaded. Ellie chews your ear-off with pointless trivia questions, but you don’t respond. The ideas she has are insignificant in the grand scheme of things. You just need to get to Jackson, find your brother and see that girl off. Then you’ll have some semblance of normalcy again. Everything else is secondary. 

Ellie finally takes the hint and moves her irritating interrogations to Joel, who shows her a little more compassion. 

"I stayed in a place like this, back in Boston QZ,” Ellie says, pointing to a giant metal sign. 

“Military Preparatory School,” Joel reads aloud. 

Ellie scoffs. “Nice way of saying orphanage.”

You check the front dash of an abandoned truck while they chat. There’s nothing inside except for empty chocolate bars and a dirty log-book. When you jump back down off the bonnet Joel he gives you an over-the-shoulder look.

“I wonder what happened to all these kids,” Ellie mutters, kicking at the ground. 

Joel flexes his arms. “This place’s been out for a good stretch. They ain’t kids no more.” 

“Meaning they’re either hunters trying to kill us or they’re dead.”

You hum in agreement, which catches their attention. 

“Did you go to one of these schools?” Ellie asks. “Is that why you’ve got all that military gear?”

You look down at the rifle in your arms, pressed hip-to-chest just in-case someone pops their head out. It’s military issue yeah, but it hasn’t seen anyone of that sort in years. 

“No.” 

Its the first time you’ve spoken in an hour and Joel still can’t figure out your accent. It’s different from anything he's heard, and he's met a lot of people over his smuggling jobs. 

“Then where’d you get it from?” Ellie asks, pointing at your Ballista. 

You don’t respond, instead, you turn and make your way over to the back alley. Joel scavenges for supplies. You find a jar of nails, some old nuts and bolts, and a bottle of detergent. The Humvee is doing drive by’s, spraying bullets at anything that moves, even the shadows. Hunters are closing off zones—checking for civilians and Infected before night falls. 

You realise that the Humvee isn’t going to leave the zone you’re in any time soon, which makes travelling a pain. There are two options; sneak around or take them head-on. Joel chooses the stealth option. 

You kill a skeleton station—ten under-qualified men on the nightshift—before you’re spotted by the Humvee’s shimmering spotlight. The stealth approach flies right out the window and you make a run for it, tearing down anyone in your path.

You take point in an old apartment complex. Ellie and Joel follow quickly behind you. 

Getting away from the Humvee was a top priority. They don’t have omnidirectional movement, so high ground was all but necessary if you wanted to make it to the bridge by twilight. 

You climb out onto the fire escape and start shuffling across the ledge. Ellie looks a little nervous, but Joel encourages her that’ll be okay. After maybe ten minutes of dodging the Humvee’s insistent patrol, you find an open window. 

“There’s two inside,” you mutter.

Joel makes an exasperated noise. “How do you know?”

You don’t give him an explanation, you just pull out your pistol and swing yourself over the window ledge. 

They attack you, unsurprisingly so. They’re taller than you, heavier than you and burning on fumes. 

You punch the man right in the centre of his chest and slam your heel down on his toes. He makes a wretched noise and fumbles back as you press the muzzle of your 9mm between his eyes. He falls to the floor and heaves, choking on his own saliva. 

There’s a little kid holding you at gunpoint, you don’t pay him much attention. His blood pressures spiking, his heart rates double what it should be. It’s highly unlikely he’d hit a shot. 

You don’t kill kids. You don’t **want** to kill kids. Rules are rules. 

The young man at your feet splutters, eyes going wide as you holster your pistol. 

“It’s alright,” he says. “She’s not a bad guy. Lower the gun.” 

The little boy listens and carefully lowers the barrel of his gun. His hands are shaky and he’s sweating. You think he might throw up. 

“You hit **hard**.” The older boy grumbles. He’s gently palming the centre of his chest, rattled breathes tumbling from his bloody lip. He must’ve bitten his tongue when you punched him. His vitals are okay though. You didn’t think you’d hit him _that_ hard. 

“I thought you were one of them, but you didn’t shoot me. You could’ve, but you didn’t.” 

You’re uninterested by his recount. You move towards the window and scan the streets below—making sure the Humvee has moved along. You can’t see it anywhere. There aren’t any hunter’s either, but they’re close. There’s dead Infected littering the street. 

“I’m Henry,” the older boy introduces. “This is Sam.” 

Ellie flicks her hands. “I’m Ellie. This is—“

Joel puts his arm in front of her. “How many are with you?” 

“They’re all dead,” Sam says. 

“Hey,” Henry slaps his shoulder lightly. “We don’t know that.”

Sam looks at him, and some sort of silent message passes between them. 

“There were a bunch of us,” Henry admits. “Someone had the brilliant idea of entering the city to look for supplies. Those fuckers—they ambushed us! Scattered us. Now it’s all about getting out of this shithole.” 

“You staying somewhere?” You ask. 

Henry gives you a narrow-eyed stare. _“Why?”_

“Nightfall. We can’t travel.” 

Henry gives you a hard look.  “You from the military?”

You turn and survey the room for supplies. There’s a cot pushed up against the far wall, inside is a plush toy and some dusty blankets. To the left near the open window is a cupboard littered with empty bottles. You take a couple and shove them into your backpack. 

“You gonna answer?” Henry asks, his eyes following your every move.

“I wouldn’t bother with the questions,” Ellie grumbles. “She doesn’t talk much.”

“I can see that."

These questions are so superficial and unnecessary. Even if you remembered the answers they were searching for, it didn’t help anyone from knowing. It’d probably just sew more distrust between you all. 

“We’ve got a hideout not too far from here, it’d be safer if we chat there.” 

Joel paces a little, looking between you and Ellie carefully. “Alright, take us there.” 

Henry nods. “Follow me.” 

He starts out of the room, and you quickly follow behind him. Your vision tells you that Henry’s in his early twenties, not Infected and around 180cm tall. The initial strike of your fist has bruised the skin around his ribcage and damaged his diaphragm. He can’t feel it now, but you’re certain the pain will surface tomorrow. 

“So, what's your name? I didn’t catch it,” Henry says, sparing a glance at your figure. 

You don’t respond, you just peek your head around a corner to check if it's safe. 

“…we don’t really know her name,” Ellie admits.

Henry’s eyebrows shot up. “She hasn’t told you?”

“Well…” Ellie fiddles with her ponytail. “Her dog-tags say (Name), but she hasn’t really reacted to being called that.” 

You can feel Henry’s eyes boring into the back of your head. You don’t care that they’re talking about you to your face, but his staring makes you frown. It’s the exact reason why touring with people makes you uncomfortable. They always stare and talk and _pry_. 

Nonetheless, your travelling preferences have become negligible. There’s a painful ache that blooms in your chest when you think about abandoning the immune girl. You’re not sure what it means, but you refuse to push it away. It’s the most emotion you’ve felt in what feels like forever, and you cling to it. 

“It’s just you and your daughter then?” Henry asks. 

Ellie shakes her head. “We’re not related…we’re more like—um—“

“I promised someone I’d look after her.” Joel finishes.

“Yeah,” Henry hums. “I can appreciate that.” 

He stops at the foot of an abandoned toy-store. The sign says closed, but the sliding door’s been smashed and the front windows are boarded up.  Faded reds and weathered greens peel from the walls like flower petals. The backdrop next to the counter has a big yellow lion hiding behind a tree.

“Get away from the windows,” you say. “The Humvee’s driving by.”

Henry whirls around on you. “How do you—?”

“Listen to her,” Joel insists, ducking down against a wooden shelf littered with broken toys. 

Not a moment goes by before the floor starts to vibrate and the Humvee speeds past, it’s blinding spotlight dotting kaleidoscopic rainbows across the back wall. 

“We have to be careful,” you say. “We’re right next to one of their lookout areas.” 

Henry looks a little flustered. You don’t care why. You just get up and gesture with your head for him to start walking. He gets the picture pretty quickly. 

“How far is this place?” Joel asks.

“We’re close,” Henry insists. “C’mon. Through this door. ” 

“You sure its safe being so close to them?” Joel asks. 

“It’s not.” You mutter, jostling your rifle against your shoulder. 

Henry gives you a sheepish smile. “I’m the only one with a key though.” 

He shows it to you. A single silver piece jingling against a chain. He fiddles with the lock for a second before it pops and the door creaks open. 

“Where’d you get that?”

“I killed one of em. He won’t miss it now,” he steps inside.“Everybody through.” 

His hideout is an old office building with polished wooden walls, carpeted floors and in-the-ceiling light fixtures. Desks line the far wall, pushed against some dust-caked windows. There are books stacked in a pile near a picture of the Golden Gate Bridge. You grab one and read the blurb. It doesn’t spark any sort of recognition inside you, so you put it down. 

It’s an empty hope anyways. 

“How long have you guys been holed up in here?” Ellie asks. 

“A few days,” Sam says, back-pacing towards the couch. “We found a bit of food though.” 

“Blueberries,” Henry says. “Found a whole stash of em. You want some?” 

“No,” Joel mutters, scanning the windows cautiously.

“Hey man, relax. We’re safe.”

He doesn’t seem convinced. “So, why haven’t you left?” 

Henry shrugs. “Been waiting for the right opportunity.”

_“And?”_ Joel prompts. 

“It’s the bridge,” you say, leaning back against a desk. “Their patrols are too guarded during the day and come nightfall this place will be crawling with Infected. Sneaking past could work if you get the timing right. Otherwise, you’ll have a military-grade turret to deal with."

Joel stares at you. You’ve crossed your arms under your chest and hooked your ankles over each other. There’s weariness in your eyes that he hasn’t seen before. Like your guards beginning to slip. It’s a possibility. I mean, he’s pretty sure that’s the most he’s ever heard you speak, and that insatiable accent of yours tickles his ears like nothing else. 

“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” Henry says, grinning at you. “After sunset. That’s our window. With most of them gone, we sneak right past ‘em.”

“That could work.”

“Oh, it’ll work. It’ll **definitely** work.” 

You prop yourself up on a desk chair and stretch your legs. The hum of chatter makes your eyes heavy, and pretty soon you start to doze off. Your dreams are always the same. There’s a boy—maybe seventeen—and he’s screaming bloody murder at you.

_“I hate you!” The boys voice cracks, trailing off into a pitiful squeak. His eyes are red and swollen, hiding the deadly glare he’s aiming at your chest. Pure hatred vibrates through his body. He looks angry enough to explode on the spot._

_“Please!” You beg him. “Fuckin’ hell Archie this isn’t a game, come back here!”_

_“You’re a monster!” He screams, lashing out at you with his switchblade. You jump back, pulse racing under your skin._

_You try for him again, and this time it works. Despite the rain making slick of your calloused palms and hardened nerves, you fingers link and you start pulling on his arm._

_He thrashes. The edge of his switchblade flails through the air, cutting chaotic squares into the rain. He nicks your nose, just barely on the surface. Enough to give the tiny hairs on your cheek a clean shave._

_“I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU! Hateyouhateyouhateyou—RRGHH!”_

_He takes a swing. The first misses completely, but then he goes low, shrieking at the top of his lungs and sinks the switchblade into your thigh._

_You grunt and quiver, giving him just enough room to wiggle out of your grip. The rain pelts your back. It’s cold. Unbelievable cold, and you hate it._

_Pain soars and blooms, tingling across your body like lightning. You collapse against the side of a wrecked car. Blood swims across your fingers and digs into the grooves in your palms. You hold your leg, clench your teeth and pull the knife out._

_It hurts. Really bad. But you don’t scream._

_Tears well in your eyes, hot and salty. You bury your head in the crook of your arm to stifle them. Everything’s turned to shit in a matter of minutes. There’s blood on your hands that isn’t yours and all you can do is cry._

_Your anger gets the best of you. You don’t know what you’re arguing about, but you know that he’s your younger brother. You know he’s saying things he shouldn’t be saying. Saying things he doesn’t mean. Saying things he knows will hurt you._

_“I had no fucking choice!”_

_He’s standing in the cold, running on desperation. His hairs flattened to his head, dripping slow-motion rain like a stalactite. The softness to his eyes is hollow, rotted to the core._

_“Fuck you.” He spits on you, but it just meshes with the rain._

_“Why didn’t you do it then?” You lunge at him, your fingers snaking around his wrist. “Think you could’ve stomach’it? I sure as hell fuckin’ don’t! You’re a **coward**.” _

_“I’m not a coward!” He roars, his voice curdling with panic._

_The punches start raining down on your head. They’re weak and barely tickle the surface of your pain threshold. But it's_ _him __punching you, so they sting like hell._

_Your legs screaming at you to sit down, and your blood is starting to crystallise its so cold, but all you can concentrate on is the ache in your chest. Everyone’s gone. Dead. Torn apart. You're all alone._

_“Stupid kid,” you spit, twisting his arm. He squeals in pain, but frankly you don’t give a shit.“You won’t survive on your own. Maybe a week without Infected, but hunters? They’ll eat you_ **_alive_ ** _.”_

_Thunder hits the river and arks across the air in a glittering spire. You’re soaked from head to toe, goosebumps rippling across every inch of your skin, but you don’t let go._

_“F-Fuck you!” He knees you in the leg, right in the sweet spot where he stabbed you, and you collapse again._

_You hit the pavement head-first and it rattles your brain. Everything's turned to mush. You can't move, can't breathe, can't think. This world has throttled your morality, bested your will and completely destroyed your hope. It's made you give up. _

_You watch Archie run. Darkness lurches from the shadows, reaching out to him. He won’t make it on his own. He’s never had to navigate his own survival. All his life, we've protected him, nursed him, fed him, taken care of him. He has no idea what it's like.To kill innocent people for supplies, to slaughter Infected with the very real chance of turning. To watch children **die**. _

_You've accepted your fate. You're totally and utterly fucked. If the Infected don't find you, the hunters will._

_You know that, but you still let him go._

* * *

You wake with a jump. 

It’s dark outside, but you can see wispy tendrils of moonshine glittering through the boarded windows. 

You rise to your feet and your temples pinch. You're sporting a killer headache. A hiss slips past your lips and you clutch your head, trying to push it away. 

Joel’s passed out in a chair, mumbling in his sleep. You nudge him—once, twice, and three times a charm, before his eyes flutter open and narrow in on you. 

“Time to go,” you say. 

He’s still blinking back sleep, but he gives you a gentle nod and stretches to his feet. His joints pop and crackle like candy, and he stifles a rumbling yawn between his giant hands. He’s got a lot of wear and tear, and yet he still gets along fine. You admire his resolve. 

“Now we’re gonna be moving fast, okay?” Henry says. “No matter what, you stick to me _like glue_.”

“Like glue,” Sam repeats. “Got it.” 

Henry smiles softly, and it's pliant in a way you haven't really seen him express before. He notices you watching him and his heart rate spikes. 

“You ready?” 

Joel nods. “Yeah.” 

“Alright, ya’ll stay close, okay?” 

He leads you into the office building again, but this time it’s too dark to see anything. Ellie almost bumps into a desk chair, fumbling around in a sleepy haze, and you quickly steer her away from it. 

“Thank you,” she mumbles, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. 

“You tried this before?” Joel asks, glancing at you in his peripherals. 

“Uhhh,” Henry flashes his torchlight across the floor. “Yeah.”

Joel scratches the back of his head. “That’s comforting.” 

“Relax old man.”

“I just hope you know the way.”

Henry’s careful. Too careful. Even if you took the stairs two at a time you still wouldn’t have made it to the foyer before the moon hit the city skyline. There’s a couple hunter's warming themselves up by a barrel of fire. Joel and Henry take point while you guard the kids.

The Humvee sweeps the area once before it disappears down the block. There are maybe seven men guarding the gate, two on the watchtower, and three patrolling on foot. 

Henry chokes out one, and Joel shivs another. Everything’s going pretty well until your internal radar starts pinging like crazy. Everyone’s crouched behind a concrete barricade, ducking under the bright spotlight swaying up ahead.

“Clickers,” you mutter.

Joel shuffles closer to you, white-knuckling his rifle. Your voice is petal-soft and he can’t hear shit with all the gunfire and yelling. 

“Where?” Ellie asks.

“Beyond the barricade,” you point out into the darkness, but Joel can’t see or hear anything from that far away. 

“We could use them as cover to move around.” You mutter, eyes narrowing in on the marksman sweeping his barrel across the street. 

“Good idea,” Henry agrees. “How we gonna do it?”

“I’ll take the watchtower.” 

You go to move but Henry pulls you back. 

“You sure? Those guys…they’re not…well—“ 

“Let go of me,” you demand. You’re seconds away from pulling his arm right out of its socket, but he reluctantly let's go. 

Joel looks at you. He has no idea what you’re planning, nor what’s going on in that weird little head of yours. But from experience, he knows not to question your judgment. 

You take a deep breath to calm your nerves. You haven’t done this in a while, and it’ll surely put your mechanical parts to work. 

You pick a piece of concrete up off the floor. It's about the size of a brick, a little top-heavy, but it’ll do the trick. You peek up over the barricade, find a perfect spot and throw it like a grenade. 

Glass shatters and people start screaming. A shotgun round goes off, and you know that it’s time to go. 

You hurtle over the barricade, going completely unnoticed by the skeleton crew. There's maybe thirty metres between you and the watchtower, if you pull your gun on the marksman now, you’re definitely going to be caught in the crossfires of another hunter. 

You need cover. What better vantage point than their own watchtower to rain down absolute hellfire. Your heel hits the rearview mirror of a wrecked car lying in the street and you spring into the air, hurtling towards the unsuspecting hunter like a bullet. 

The mechanical gears in your knee buzz, clicking and whirring as you push your body to the limit. You land on the hunter’s back, your legs snaking around his neck and squeezing until it snaps. The guy next to him flails and screams, but you put a bullet between his eyes before he can call for help. 

You drop-down next to the gate and stab the point guard in the neck. He bleeds out in record time. The other two hunters take the rest of your magazine to the chest before they keel over. 

You unlatch the metal slab that locks the door in place and push it open with. There’s guards inside, stacked on top of a bunch of care-wrecks. They haven't spotted you yet, but they’ll figure out pretty soon you’ve killed their friends.

“How the fuck did you do that?!” Henry yell-whispers.

Everyone’s shuffled forward from the barricade. Joel's giving you a peculiar look. 

“Momentum,” you say. 

“Bullshit! You can’t do that with just—“

A spotlight hits the back of his head. The Humvee’s back. 

“Oh no—shit!”

There’s no time to explain, everyone rushes inside and you slam the latch back down over the metal door. 

“Hunters,” you warn, grabbing your pistol. “Duck.” 

Henry listens this time and a bullet whizzes over his head. You put the hunter down with a single bullet and his body topples off the back of a semi-truck and hits the floor with a sickening squelch.

“Alright, check it out!” Joel urges, interlacing his fingers so that Henry can get a boost up to the broken ladder attached to the trucks cargo container. Sam gets up next.

“They locked it!” Someone yells.

“Ellie, hurry up!” Joel insists. 

Ellie scrambles up his shoulder and reaches out to grab Henry’s hand. She kicks and squirms and the ladder breaks away under her weight.  It doesn’t prove to be a problem for you, but your travel companions start panicking. 

“Move outta the fucking way!” A hunter calls from beyond the metal grate. “We gotta ram it!” 

“Okay okay, we gotta get him up!” Ellie yells. 

“Ah…” Henry looks around anxiously, he can’t find anything to use leverage. 

You turn back to the metal gate. You don’t have time to scavenge for supplies. You don’t even have time to _think_ at this point. The second that turret breaks through line of sight, you’re all going to be showered in bullets. No one’s going to get out of here alive if that Humvee doesn’t piss off.

A thought pops into your head. 

“Joel,” you say. 

Joel gives you an over-the-shoulder look. You’ve never said his name before, and it sounds weird with your accent. Like you’re saying Noel, the Christmas hymn. 

“I’ll give you a boost.” 

He shakes his head. “Think you can hold my weight?”

You nod, and there's this intensely serious sheen to your eyes that makes his frustration waver. 

“Quickly.” 

You get down on one knee, and your knee sprockets groan against the cold pavement. You ignore it and interlace your fingers together, waiting for him to make up his mind. 

Joel looks seconds away from punching the side of the truck from sheer frustration. He doesn’t think this'll work, but the second the underside of his boot hits your palm, you fling him into the air like he’s made of feathers. He springs up against the cargo container and almost topples Henry over. 

“What the fuck,” Ellie breathes. “How did you—?”

The metal gate lurches and you can see the razor-wired barbs crunching against the lock. A barrage of turret bullets almost takes Joel’s head off.

“C’mon!” Joel yells, reaching his hand out. He looks even angrier than before. 

“I won’t make it,” you say. “Go.” 

Ellie’s eyes almost bulge out of their sockets. “You can’t take that thing on your own!” 

“I can.” You say. 

“You can’t!” Henry yells. 

“I’ll catch up.” Probably. _Maybe._

“Walker!” Joel yells. You ignore him. 

The Humvee crashes through the gate and your travelling companions are forced to flee. You roll and come back up against a cold wall, metres away from the Humvee’s line of sight. Bullets shower the spot you once were, piercing the hardened semi-truck trailer like styrofoam. 

“I can fucking see you!” One yells.

You move, quickly too. Slipping up by even a second could cost you your life. You kick the backdoor open to what looks a storage unit. It’s dark inside, but you can make out the walls silhouettes. 

You navigate through the darkness, but the Humvee’s right on your heals. Revving and purring through the walls like a heartbeat. There’s only one way out of this building and they’re herding you towards it like a mindless sheep. 

You find an exit but it’s boarded up. Most likely a safety precaution. Hunters don’t want anyone coming in or out without looting their dead corpse for supplies. Their fail-safes become uncompromisingly useless once you kick the door off its hinges though. 

They definitely hear it. You can imagine they’re practically gurgling with excitement. 

“Fuckin’ open it, go!” 

The bridge is right up ahead. You don’t have time to make a run for it, you’d just get shot in the back. 

You stand your ground when the Humvee breaks through. The guy manning the military turret takes a whole 9mm magazine to the chest before he flies right off the back and gets trampled underneath the tank’s wheels. 

With no one arming the turret, you rush. Men scream expletives at you, but they become rather complicit when you land on the Humvee’s bonnet. The metal rumbles beneath your feet like a robotic surface board, and then they begin to panic. 

The turret swings around on your like a submarine telescope. You duck the first spin, but the second one hits you right in the ribs. You can practically feel them splinter as you get thrown sideways. The razor-wire encircling the Humvee catches your arm and skins your entire forearm off like a banana peel.

It’s hurts like an absolute motherfucker, but you don’t scream. Instead, you deal with your anger in a more progressive way. You grab onto the turret and let it take you for a ride. After three spins you start to feel sick, and on the fourth, you plant your feet against the side of the tank and tear the stupid gun right of its hinges. It sails over your head and crashes into a dead police car, squashing it flat. 

Whoever’s manning the tank realises a little too late what's about to happen. You pop the pin on a grenade and drop it into the hole you’ve created. Once it hits the ground you get to running.

A couple seconds later the ground beneath your feet trembles and you veer off into the side of a wall. 

The butterfly effect from the explosion takes you right off your feet and you do backflip right into the pavement. Blood is pouring everywhere and your nerves feel like they’re on fire. Your mangled arm isn’t an easy patch-up. Neither are your cracked ribs. By this point, adrenaline is the only thing keeping your lungs from collapsing. 

The one thing you can take solace in is the Humvee burning down in flames behind you. 

You dot in and out of consciousness for a good while, and when you finally come to, you’ve somehow dragged yourself into an old record store and propped your arm up against a stand.  Eventually, dawn breaks and sunshine hits the faded windows, making them glow like liquid gold. The gears in your arm and leg churn, sending hot and cold burns up and down your sides. This always happens when you get hurt, but you can never get used to it. 

The torn flesh of your arm sinks in on itself. Bone and blood knit together, woven together by vein and cartilage. Your skin scours across muscle and bone until its brand new—like you’ve turned back the clock. 

Your chest hurts, but it’ll take a hell of a lot more time for your ribs to heal. You’re lucky you're alive. How you didn’t bleed out overnight is an absolute mystery. 

Fighting in the dark is a terrible, _terrible_ idea. 

You make your way to the edge of the bridge and find that it’s collapsed, which spells immense trouble for your friends. You idly wonder how they made it across. For you its a lot easier. You make the gap with a solid sprint jump that really hurts your ribs. 

Hunters are everywhere on the other side, Infected too. Drawing attention to yourself is a _really_ bad idea. Even if you were running at optimal capacity, you wouldn't have enough supplies to boycott their entire border patrol.  A strong breeze could blow you over if you weren't careful.

Anyone you encounter you make sure to kill in the quietest way possible. You keep a wary focus on your equipment. Your bowie knife's getting dull, you're low on pistol ammunition and your clothes are beyond repair. Blood has saturated the fabric to the point of irreversible decay. You don't have time to rummage around for some new clothes, so you trudge along, trying to ignore the disgusting squelch of your jeans as you walk. 

By the time you make it to the suburban neighbourhoods, you’re slick with sweat and itchy all over. 

Just when you think you’re in the clear, another Humvee comes whizzing past with a corpse tied to the bonnet. You have to duck into a boxed off office building to avoid them—which is crawling with Infected. The Stalkers lay dormant, muttering and groaning as you sneak past. But you tweak your leg on a broken piece of glass and all hell breaks loose. 

They chase you, and they’re fucking _relentless_. There’s at least twenty, jumbled between a mix of Clickers which moan with excitement, ready to sink their fucked-up teeth into your neck. 

You put three solid headshots into a Clicker before the Cordyceps fungi mutating its face explodes. You’ve got no time to reload and the others jump you with earnest. You switch to hand-to-hand combat, which is incredibly risky when it comes to the virus's susceptibility. One fuck-up and they'll latch onto your arm and starting thrashing until you lose balance. Then you'll get piled-on until they tear you apart. 

You pick a piece of timber up off the ground and smash it into an Infected’s face. It squeals and stumbles back, giving you enough time to swing it down on the top of its head. The wood splinters to pieces and the Infected's head pops, showering your face with blood. 

Another one lunges at you, but you’re quicker. You jab your bowie knife deep into its neck and pull, running the blade across the line of its jugular until its spewing blood from its adam’s apple.  The last one, another Clicker that’s hobbling and squawking, makes a mad dash for your arm. Your survival instincts barely keep you alive as you roll away and come back up swinging. Your fist connects with the squishy ulcerated area of its face and you smack its head right off its shoulders with an almighty punch that makes the gears in your arm scream. 

You don’t have time to take a breather. More are coming. You make a run for it, dodging through corridors, barging your way through boxed off doors and giving the Infected hell. Finally, you spot a way out. A tiny broken window used to filter airflow from conditioning units. You grip onto the exposed plumbing sinking out of the walls and swing yourself through the crack. A piece of glass catches your tee-shirt, but it's not sharp enough to pierce your skin. 

You hit the grass face first and sprawl. You gulp down fresh air as the sun beats down on your shoulders. 

Infected are squealing from the other side of the wall, bashing at the vending-machine propped-up against the door. You scramble to your feet and book it through a gap in a fence post. Hopefully, their echolocation skills tell them you've left, and they chill the fuck out. 

The suburban side of town is much more lax, much to your relief. Fewer patrols, less Infected. More time for your body to heal in the sunlight. 

In the distance, you can see a radio-tower. You recall Henry talking about the group he was travelling with, and how they were supposed to meet up there. You start your trek over to it, hoping that they haven't died yet.

After maybe an hour, you hear voices. Fuzzy, familiar sounds that set your hopes alight like a brazier. 

Ellie is the first to spot you, and her face lights up like you’re Santa Claus.

“You’re alive!” She cheers. 

_Barely._ You’re covered in blood. Head to toe, with Infected flesh clinging to your arms. There are bruises on your neck and a cut on your cheek that's started to scab. You look tired as all hell and your hands are trembling around the pistol-hand of your rifle. 

“What the hell happened?” 

You try—but no avail—to wipe the dried blood off your face. 

“Clickers.” You mutter. 

Henry gives you an exasperated look. “No normal person would’ve survived that.”

Joel grunts. “She clearly ain’t normal.”

You can’t deny that. You’re sure they suspect foul play by now. You’ve done things that a normal person wouldn’t be capable of. Jumping the watchtower like a goddamn frog was one thing, destroying the Humvee was on a completely different plane of unusual activity.

Joel is giving you this look. He knows somethings up. He’s examining your face, going over your features with an intensely critical eye. Then he notices the dog tags on your neck again. They’re so silver it hurts his eyes. 

You’re military of some sort. That much he can gather. Your covertness isn’t subtle. He knows you’ve been taught to keep your mouth shut and your senses sharp. It’s something very common among the soldiers he’s encountered over the years. 

You’ve got the poise of a veteran. Cold, calculating and apathetic. You’re deadly and efficient with an innate ability to think on the fly. It's like you were born with the sole purpose of surviving the Outbreak. Like your only purpose was to walk on holding that goddamned sniper rifle for the rest of your apathetic existence. 

You’re almost…robotic.  But then you open your mouth and this picture of cold-blooded mercenary crumbles. Your voice is soft like a harp, oozing warmth with every word. These two opposing beliefs keep Joel wired.  He doesn't understand you. At all. 

“Twice,” you hum, linking for pointer and middle finger together. 

“Twice what?” Joel grumbles.

Ellie giggles. “Twice she’s saved your ass.”

Joel huffs. He won’t admit it—ever—but’s he’s relieved that he bumped into you when he did. 

In the distance, the shrill cry of Infected wallows in the air. You’re too dizzy with pain to registered how far away they are, or how many of them you can pick up. Every breath you take feels like it’s scouring up your insides. 

“I think it’s time we quit this place, c’mon.” 

You nod, following right on his heels. Joel takes point this time. You can’t tell whether its because he feels a sense of responsibility to do so—being the oldest and most experienced—or because you’re not up to the task. He’s never heard you huff and puff like this before. He knows somethings up, but there’s no time to stop and take inventory of everyone's cuts and bruises. 

He leads you into a two-story apartment complex. The radio-tower. It’s clean of Infected—so he says—but he still takes a look around, cautious as ever. 

You really couldn’t care less at this point. The burning in your chest is unavoidable. Ducking and weaving through barricades hasn’t aided the healing process of your broken ribs, it’s only agitated them to the point of inflammation. You can barely breathe by the time you set up for the night. A Clicker could be tearing your brains out and you wouldn’t even notice. It’s all too fucking hard. 

“You alright?” Joel asks as you find a nice little corner to tuck yourself in.

The sweet southern drawl of his voice makes your brain turn to mush, and you can barely keep your lips from quivering to muster up some sort of response. 

You cross your arms and pull at the damp edges of your tank-top, shaking like a tambourine as you pull it over your head. 

Joel lets out a strangled breath. 

_ “Christ.” _

Christ indeed. 

Your torso is a galaxy of black and blue bruises. Every breath rips through you like a knife. It’s fucked to look at, and even harder to digest. A single touch to the abdomen would set your nerves alight with incomprehensible pain. 

You bite down on your tank to keep it from unravelling, and carefully examine your diaphragm. The force of the blow has smashed the capillaries around your ribcage, which explains why the bruises are so dark. Your blood vessels have probably never experienced such a high-impact injury before, that's why they ruptured so violently.

“Holy shit,” Ellie mutters. She looks a little queasy. “What the fuck happened?”

A shallow breath rocks your entire body. “Military turret did a 360 when I was grenade-dropping the driver. Smacked me off the side.”  Your words all slur together and your vision starts to dot. 

“Alright,” Joel breathes. “W-We got any medical supplies?”

Henry makes a choking noise. “Nothing to fix that!” 

“E-Ellie,” you stammer. “My bag.”

She scrambles over to you and starts rifling through it. 

“The med-kit,” you mutter, vision dotting to black for a moment. “There should be an epidural steroid injection in there.”

“This?”

“Y-Yeah,” you wave her over. “I need you to inject it right here, in the small of my back.” 

“H-Hold on,” Joel says. “Ellie give it to me.”

“N-No!” You stammer. “Small hands…I need small…h-hands...” 

You blink black darkness for a moment and when you come to, Ellie is searching your face, panic burning behind her eyes.

“Quickly,” you mutter. “I’m about to pass out."

“O-Okay.” 

Her tiny fingers run along your back, they're cold as hell and prickle the hairs on your tailbone like a nerve agent. The tip of the syringe touches your spine and you take a deep breath. Then it pierces your skin.

You suck your bottom lip into your mouth to keep from screaming, but your body starts convulsing on the spot. Joel has to hold you down so that you don't accidentally punch Ellie.  A second more and you’re out of it for good. You don’t dream. You just pave your way through a mindless sleep, tossing and turning and muttering as your brain throbs on a loop. Your skins hot for one second and then deathly cold for another. 

You hear voices through your fever. A constant stream of unending sound that you can’t put together. You blink, but you can’t focus on anything. You’re not even lucid enough to remember why you're here and who these people are. 

“Dead serious,” a deep voice drawls. “It was Tommy’s birthday. All he wanted to do is just—rent two Harley’s and drive cross country.”

Someone sighs. “Awh man. I could die happy if I just ride one—around the block.” 

Your brain does a double-take, and then you're flooded with feeling. Something tickles in your throat and then claws its way into your mouth. You let out a pitifully painful sound and clutch your ribs. It’s hard to breathe. Really fucking hard. 

“You alright?” Someone’s nudging you. 

You open your eyes, but everything's black and white and swirling like the inside of a kaleidoscope. It takes you a moment to adjust to your surroundings. There’s an itchy blanket draped across your shoulders, and you're lying on the hardwood floor, staring up at Joel’s handsome face. 

You make a gurgling sound. Your brains telling you to sleep. You need rest. But somehow you manage to string a sentence together. 

“I feel like someone just did a quadruple bypass on my sternum—so fuck no I’m not _alright_.” 

Your voice sounds fucked. Hoarse, croaky and everything you're not used to.  You don’t even notice they’re staring at you until Ellie starts laughing. 

“Looks like you’re not a robot after all.”

That gets a laugh out of everyone—all except you. They toast to it, well Henry and Ellie do. You have no idea where Sam is, and Joel’s too busy staring at you to even resister their cheers. 

It would’ve been funny if it wasn’t real. The gears in your leg and arm have gone totally silent. The usual whir that accompanies the rush of blood in your ears is gone.

Things start to get dark again. That frenzied guise is pulling you back into unconsciousness. 

“That girl,” Henry mutters, his voice trailing off. “I don’t think I’ve seen anything like her.”

Joel stares down at you. You're sweating through your tee-shirt, cheeks flushed and body feverish. Your lips part ever so slightly, sucking in shallow breaths. They rattle through your body, making your eyebrows furrow together.  Even when you sleep you're wary. It makes Joel shake his head. 

You're a conundrum. That surly indifference of yours makes it hard to judge your character. He’s got nothing to go off except your combat skills. He doesn’t know shit about you, not even on a surface level. Fuck—you don’t even know your own goddamn _name_.

All this mystery shouldn't bother him though. He's a smuggler. He shouldn't give a shit about who you are and what you do. He gets paid to kill first and ask questions later.  But _you_...you're eating at him like poison. 

Why did you risk your life for him and Ellie? Why did you put yourself on the line for their sake? You don’t owe them anything—reversely, he owes you for saving his life. _Again._

What is your goal from this? What do you stand to gain for all this altruism? _Nothing._ He can't give you anything that you don't already have. You're stacked on supplies, careful with your ammunition and efficient with your resources. He racks his brain, but he can't come up with anything. It surely isn't company or assurance—travelling in numbers definitely isn't your style. So _why?_

It hurts to think about, so he pushes it away

When you wake in the morning, it's from a complex stream of memories you can’t decipher. People you don’t remember call out your name. They talk to you in a way that's comfortable and conversational. They touch your arm and caress your face and look at you. _Really_ look at you. But you don't recognise a single one of them. 

All these memories—the ones they've taken away from you—are coming back in a regurgitated jumble you can’t organise. The chaos they bring with them makes the hate cooling inside you rise to the surface. You loathe them with every fibre of your being. They’ve left your in burning black hole of rage and hurt. They've erased what made you, _you_. And now _this_ is what's left. A wayfaring cyborg scouring the countryside aimlessly killing Infected. 

You want to cry. But you don't know how anymore. 

“Good mornin’,” Joel says, breaking you from your thoughts. 

You look up. He's staring out the window, but he's lowered his gaze in greeting. His eyes are ridiculously pretty in the morning sunshine. 

You grip the window ledge and pull yourself up-right. Pain scores your side, and it feels like you’ve just swallowed a blowtorch on maximum heat. But it's not half as bad as it was last night. 

“How you feelin’?” Joel asks, keeping his eyes trained on the window. 

“Go—“ you cough once, then twice, _three whole times,_ before it turns into an entire wheezing fit which lathers your throat with hot bile.

_“Good.”_ You remedy, wiping the sleep from your eyes. 

Joel chuckles and shakes his head. “You ain’t foolin’ anyone with that _sweetheart_.” 

You brow tweaks at the pet name and a miserable little noise escapes you.  You start to feel a little weird. But it’s not painful. 

Ellie saves you from psychoanalysing it. 

“Where’s Sam?” 

Henry looks up from stirring a pot of baked beans over an electric burner. “I let him sleep in for once. If you want him to join us, you can go wake his ass up.” 

Ellie rubs her nose. “Okay.” 

She stumbles over to the door, still half awake. You hear some scuffling and then you internal radar goes sky-high. 

_ “SAM!” _

The door squeals, clanging against its rusty hinges as it slams open. Ellie collapses. 

Joel whips his head around. “What the hell?” 

Sam’s flailing his hands around, garbled moaning noises whistling through his teeth. It takes you a second to realise what's going on. 

“Shit, he’s turnin’!” 

Joel rushes for his backpack but Henry’s so much quicker than both of you anticipated. He damn nearly shoots Joel’s fingers off. 

“That’s my fucking brother!”

You try to get up but the pain in your side topples you over. 

“Don’t move!” Joel yells at you.

You couldn't if you wanted to. 

“Sam!” Ellie screams. 

She’s struggling to keep him at bay. Even if she is immune, getting torn apart is still very much a possibility. The Cordyceps virus directly affects the higher functioning mechanisms of a person's brain, rendering them hyper-aggressive and incapable rational thought. Sam's mutated mind was not going to stop until he killed all four of us. Then he'd stay dormant in this radio-tower until more people came along. Maybe in a couple of weeks, he'd become a Stalker, and in a year from now when our rotting corpses were turning to dust, he'd be a full-blown Clicker. 

There’s a loud noise. Gunpowder wafts under your nose. Your ears are ringing, and when you look back up, Sam's collapsed on the ground and Ellie’s wriggling away. 

“Ah,” her heart-rates doubled. “S-Shit.”

“Ellie?” Joel puts his hand on her shoulder. “Ellie, are you alright?”

She takes a deep breath. “Uh-huh.”

_ “…Sam?”  _

Your eyes are on Henry’s in an instant. His blood pressure is high and still rising. Contractions in his muscles suggest he’s going into shock. Not good. _Very not good._ People do very irrational things when they're hysterical. 

“Henry,” your voice is hoarse. You need to fix this before he starts pointing fingers. 

He points his gun at you, but he’s shaking so badly he can barely hold it. 

“You need to the put the gun down, Henry,” Joel says. But the second he moves, Henry’s pointing the barrel at him. 

Joel’s hands shoot into the air. “Okay, okay. _Easy._ ”

“This is your fault!” Henry cries.

"T-This is no one's f-fault, Henry," Joel says, his eyes wild with fear. 

“It’s _all_ your fault!” He screams. The cartridge jiggles. His heart is racing.

He’s gonna shoot, he’s gonna shoot. _Holy shit._ He's going to kill Joel.

Something. You're not sure what. Call it gravity, inertia. Maybe even call of the void. Whatever it is, it makes you reach for your gun. 

Henry's heart-rate crescendos. Yours falls. 

Another shot goes off. 

Henry hits the floor. 

There's blood everywhere. And it's not yours.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I am back from a long ass hiatus with TLOU running through my veins. I have been very, very sick since the beginning of August and just when I started to get better I had trial exams and now I will have even more exams, so updates will probably be slow. Idk. Anyways I hope you enjoyed it and stay tuned for the next chapter. 
> 
> Much love.


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